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North Caroliniana Society 

no. 33 

Roots and branches 

Wilma Dykeman 

Together with Tributes to Wilma Dykeman by Dykeman Stokely, 

Jim Stokely, and Robert Morgan on the Occasion of Tier 

Acceptance of the North Caroliniana Society Award for 2001 


H. G.Jones, General Editor 

No. I '. An Eiening at Monticello: An Essay in Reflection (1978) 
by Edwin M. Gill 

No. 2. The Paul Green I Know (1978) 
by Elizabeth Lay Green 

No. 3. The Albert Coates I Know (1979) 
by Gladys Hall Coates 

No. 4. The Sam Ervin I Know (1980) 
by Jean Conyers Ervin 

No. 5. Sam Ragan (1981) 
Iry Neil Morgan 

No. 6. Thomas Wolfe of North Carolina (1982) 
edited by H. G Jones 

No. 7. Gertrude Sprague Carraway (1982) 
by Sam Ragan 

No. 8. John Fries Blair (1983) 
by Margaret Blair McCuiston 

No. 9. William Clyde Enday and Ida Howell Friday (1984) 
by Georgia Carroll Kyser and William Brantley Aycock 

No. 10. WilliamS. Powell. Historian (1985) 
Iry Daiid Stick and William C Friday 

No. It. "Gallantry Unsurpassed" (1985) 
edited by Archie K. Dai is 

No. 12. Mary and Jim Semans, North Carolinians (1986) 
by W. Kenneth Goodson 

No. 13. The High Water Mark (1986) 
edited Iry Archie K. Davis 

No. 14. Raleigh and Quinn: The Explorer and His Boswell (1987) 
edited by H. G. Jones 

No. 15. A Half Century in Coastal History (1987) 
by Daiid Stick 

No. 16. Thomas Wolfe at Eighty-seven (1988) 
edited by H. G. Jones 

No. 17. A Third of a Century in Senate Cloakrooms (1988) 
by William McWhorter Cochrane 

[continued on inside back cover] 

Roots and branches 


Wilma Dykeman 

Together with Tributes to Wilma "Dykeman by Dykeman Stokely, 

Jim Stokely, and Robert Morgan on the Occasion of Her 

Acceptance of the North Caroliniana Society Award for 200 1 


Chapel Hill 27514-8890 





Number 33 
H. G.Jones, General Editor 

This edition is limited to 

five hundred copies 
of which this is number 

A O Q 

^i u u 

Copyright ©2001 by 

North Caroliniana Society 

UNC Campus Box 3930 

Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27514-8890 


http:/ 1 www. ncsociety. org 

All rights reserved 

Manufactured in the United States of America 

DO- 33 



Roots and Branches, by Wilma Dykeman 3 


Opening Remarks and Introductions, by H. G. Jones 13 

Reflections of the First Son, by Dykeman Stokely 16 

Reflections of the Second Son, by Jim Stokely 20 

A Good Spring Is Hard to Come By, by Robert Morgan 23 

Presentation of the Award, by Willis P. Whichard 34 

Acceptance of the Award, by Wilma Dykeman 35 

North Caroliniana Society Award Recipients 37 

Photographs of the Occasion 38 

Cover Photo: Pack Square in Asheville, 1910, by H. W. Pelton. A landmark familiar 
to Wilma Dykeman's parents, Willard and Bonnie Cole Dykeman. Courtesy 1 Library oj 
Congress. Other photo credits: North Carolina Arboretum, page lv. Nick Lanier, 2, 38b, 
38c, 40b, 42b. Jan Hensley, 12a, 12b, 12c, 12d, 38a, 39a, 39b, 40a, 40c, 41b, 41c, 43a, 
43b. Jerry IF. Cotten, 12e, 12f, 39c, 41a, 42a, 42c, 43c. North Carolina Collection, 37. 

A The North Carolina 


The University of North Carolina 



Roots and branches 

Wilma Dykeman 

Delivered before the North Caroliniana Society in 

The North Carolina Arboretum, Asheville, 
Prior to the Awards Banquet on 1 6 June 2001 


Roots and branches 

Wilma Dykeman 

Welcome to our mountains in this springtime. The poet William 
Blake has reminded us that "great things happen when men and mountains 
meet; this does not come by jostling in the street." 

As a point of personal privilege I would add the William Buder Yeats 
thought that "An aged man is but a paltry thing, 

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless 
Soul clap its hands and sing. . . ." 

I welcome you who so generously make me clap hands and sing 
today. And I am reminded of the child I met on a bookmobile journey years 
ago before television or e-mail connected her deep mountain hollow with the 
rest of the world. Our litde library- on-wheels stopped at a crossroads where 
I watched a group of elderly, middle-aged, and young readers pour out of the 
country store, carrying arm-loads of books to exchange for another month of 

As I came down the steps on that spring morning I paused. "There's 
a fine fragrance in the air today," I said. "Something special must be in 

One litde girl, her face scrubbed to a shine and her dress freshly 
starched, stepped forward. "Why, it's us. When the bookmobile ladies come 
we put talcum in our bosoms." 

It was as sincere and as original an appreciation as I ever received and 
I want you to know that I followed my young friend's manners and dusted 
with talcum powder this evening. 

I have chosen to share some memories in the context of a paragraph 
written by philosopher-poet-essayist George Santayana: 

There is wisdom in turning as often as possible from the 
familiar to the unfamiliar. It keeps the mind agile, it fosters 
humor, it kills prejudice. The more arts and manners a traveler has 
assimilated, the more depth and pleasantness he will see in the 


manners and arts of his own home. The human heart is local and 

finite, it has roots. And if the intellect radiates from it according 

to its strength, to greater and greater distances, the reports, if they 

are to be gathered up at all, must be gathered at that center. 

My conversation with you is one of those reports. 

While contemplating this theme I attended a dinner recognizing 
recipients of honorary degrees at the University of North Carolina at 
Asheville. My friend of forty years, historian John Hope Franklin, and my 
neighbor in the woods of Beaverdam valley, philanthropist Adelaide Daniels 
Key, captivated the audience by recollections of mentors who had shaped each 
of their lives. 

They led me to consider decisive experiences with my own mentors. 
Each created a center from which the reports of which Santayana spoke might 
radiate to greater and greater distances of place and time. 

First, I was given the rooted heart by a transplanted New York father 
and a native Buncombe County mother. (I used to reassure skeptical friends 
that my fadier wasn't born here but, better still, he adopted this place the way 
an adopted child is chosen.) 

Having read about our mountains in Harper's and other magazines and 
in Horace Kephart's Our Southern Highlanders, Willard Dykeman came to 
Asheville when he was past middle age. He met my young mother, whose 
family had been in Western North Carolina for generations, and when he 
returned north from his visit in Beaverdam valley he sent Bonnie Cole a copy 
of Thoreau's Walden (my motiier's families were avid readers), sold most of his 
property, and came back to Asheville. Despite her father's doubts about an 
elderly man who was also a Yankee, Bonnie quietly had her way. They were 
married and built an Adirondack-style cottage in the woods beside a stream in 
a cusp of the mountains. They were the most compatible couple I have ever 

I was their only child. 

I do not remember ever being lonesome. 

My attention was rooted in little rituals: 

One: walks in the woods that began when my lively little fox terrier, 
Frisky, went wild with excitement as she watched my father choose one of his 
favorite canes and walk out on the rustic bridge connecting our back porch to 
the path halfway up the hillside. (I should note that he did not use a cane to 
support himself but to probe a hidden opening in the ground or the trunk of 
a fallen tree, or point out the shape of a moss-bearded rock.) Tucked between 
that hill and a larger mountain rising behind it lay a little valley alive with 
spring violets and winter galax, herbs, birds, insects, and a cold, bold spring 
gushing water into a reservoir that supplied our home down the hill. It was 
here each Christmas we made our pilgrimage for the perfect litde tree. 


Another favorite ritual: going to the mailbox each morning. In his 
noisy antique Ford the mailman might leave messages from distant places, but 
he always left the New York Herald Tribune with its bold headlines and big city 
smell of newsprint. And in its pages was a Thornton W. Burgess "Bedtime 
Story." In the evening, carefully tracing its margins with a sharp knife, my 
father lifted out news from the Green Forest and Laughing Brook and Old 
Orchard where creatures of feather and far and fin had adventures that made 
their lives similar to our own. As he read these nature stories to me and we 
pasted them in a book that grew fatter and fatter, I learned that weather could 
be cruel or nurturing, and humans were thoughtful friends or careless visitors. 
(Were these perhaps the Harry Potters of an earlier, simpler era, creating 
magic in a natural rather than supernatural world?) 

There was the seasonal ritual of kindling the first winter fire in the 
wide fireplace: a fundamental experience, watching the quick blaze of slivered, 
fragment pine as it took hold on sturdy oak and hickory logs and settled into 
a serious fire, while my mother and father read aloud to each other — novels, 
biography, poetry, history — oh, often history — and I sprawled between their 
chairs and traced the colorful patterns of Navajo rugs they had collected on 
trips west. 

And there was the ultimate ritual: a summer visit to our northern 
relatives. Maps were pulled out of a drawer in the little walnut stand beside 
our fireplace as my father laid out various routes across North Carolina, 
Virginia, Pennsylvania, and along the Hudson River Valley where we could 
explore natural wonders and historic sites. At these places my father could tell 
of past events in such rich detail that I must have wondered if he had been 
there, done that. 

There was a final ritual. On a golden June morning following my 
fourteenth birthday, my father died abruptly of a heart attack. 

Though one of my mentors had left, my mother's rooted heart still 
prevailed in the place she always called simply The Place. 

The heritage Bonnie and Willard gave me there might be best 
understood by a moment in my childhood beside our stream. As we stood 
watching the water splash over rocks, around boulders, beneath tall trees and 
clumps of rhododendron, they suddenly asked if I knew where the creek was 
born. Born? I didn't know a creek was born. Deep in the mountains around 
us, they said, where the water from rain gathered in webs of roots and earth 
and deep springs and was gradually released into the clear, bold flow we were 
watching and hearing. 

Then, did I know where the stream went? It hadn't occurred to me 
to ask. 

Well, tliis stream went to Asheville where it joined the French Broad 
River which hurried through the mountains to join the Holston River from 


Virginia and form the mighty Tennessee. That river swept south and 
northwest and west to become part of the Ohio and finally join the mighty 
Mississippi where it was carried to mingle with the great waters of the world. 

There was a wonder to this whole ancient process. Water sucked up 
into the atmosphere and carried by clouds around the world fell to earth again 
as rain. And who could say? Some drops from this very creek might return 
here someday as rain! 

Here was example of a truth I later found beautifully and succincdy 
expressed by poet e. e. cummings: "A world of born is not a world of made." 

It was also my first lesson in globalization. I lived in a little mountain 
valley that might seem to strangers to be remote from the rest of the world 
but was, in fact, connected to all the world. 

I had learned that the personal may be universal and my intellect, such 
as it was, or is, radiated to the ever-widening distance Santayana described. 

Following the Depression which has been called our country's 
"invisible scar" (and it certainly left a deep financial scar on our family), I 
attended Biltmore Junior College (forerunner of UNC-A), and I still marvel 
with deep, if delayed, appreciation for all I learned — not just in books — from 
that under-paid, under-appreciated faculty. Then I took a great leap and 
entered Northwestern University. It was a challenge with a host of rewards. 
I graduated with a scholarship for graduate study and also/or a contract for 
television work in New York. I accepted the latter and returned to Asheville 
to make ready for a career in the Big City. 

Then life branched out in an unexpected way. 

On a Sunday morning in August, in my robe, I was picking flowers 
in my mother's garden when Thomas Wolfe's sister, Mabel Wheaton, and her 
husband brought a young man from Tennessee to our place. She had told 
me — often — about James Stokely, who knew Tom and had been, in her 
words, "a prince" to her and her mother since Tom's death. I was ordered to 
get dressed and join them for Sunday dinner. I did. 

James Stokely came back to my home on Monday morning. Alone. 

And Tuesday. And Wednesday. 

Two weeks later I visited at his mother's home in Newport, 
Tennessee. Here was the dining room where Thomas Wolfe had eaten supper 
(including thirty-two biscuits remembered by Maggie, Mrs. Stokely's cook, 
twenty years later after she had moved north but stayed in touch with James). 
Here was the library where Thomas Wolfe had offered to sign books and then 
thumbed through a few of his favorite passages from other writers. This 
library spread a kind of feast — not because of its numbers but because of its 
variety and the fact that these books were read, underlined, lived with. This 
library rose above the world of made to the world of born. 

It also represented the choice that was at the heart of James's life and, 


of course, mine too, as our lives joined. 

When his father, James Stokely, a founder and first president of a 
successful canning company, had died at the untimely age of forty-seven, his 
name had been left on the door of the chief executive's office until his young 
son, James, could assume company leadership. 

It was not to be. 

In college James made a memorable record in mathematics and 
received a degree in business. But he did not go to Indianapolis, where 
Stokely- Van Camp headquarters were eventually located. Instead he bought 
an apple orchard and, later, another one, after we were married, in Asheville. 
(This was the highly regarded Webb Orchard planted by the visionary owner 
of the Asheville Citizen, a man I wish to acknowledge as one of those who 
helped make the Great Smoky Mountains a national park). But James's true 
interest was literature, woods, mountains— and writing. 

Looking back, I realize that in my first visit down the river to 
Newport with James there were two experiences that would influence the 
course of our lives together and our writing. 

First, as we crossed the Pigeon River to climb the hill to his family 
home, he slowed the car so that I might witness the choking, stinking, 
shocking pollution of that river, water that was clear and swift and sparkling 
at its headwaters in North Carolina. I had never witnessed such degradation 
of the world of born. 

Second, James took me to the other side of town to meet some of the 
black community. I found that James had a variety of friends there. One of 
them was "Miss May," a school teacher about whom I later wrote. 

The most memorable was a doctor, over half of whose patients were 
white. We later wrote an article for Ebony magazine and joined him in 
Hollywood when the television program, "This Is Your Life," featured his 
story and a variety of his patients. (One, a young race car driver, white of 
course, whose life was saved by the good doctor after an especially shattering 
accident, told his story in such vivid, ungrammatical, Appalachian detail that 
the studio audience was reluctant to let him go.) Dr. Dennis Branch was born 
and educated in North Carolina and sometimes reminded me that we were 
both Tar Heel Volunteers, or Volunteer Tar Heels. 

Our threatened environment. Our racial divide. These challenged my 
sense of place. 

There were also James's friends among mountain neighbors who lived 
on or near the orchards. With them his harvest was not only of apples but of 
language and humor, tall tales and grief, and that knowledge we label 
"folklore," as valuable as information stored in his library. The orchards and 
the seasons on which we were all so dependent brought us close to the world 
of born, the world of Robert Frost's "Provide! Provide!" (Frost, poet and 


apple-grower and friend, influenced James in deep, life-altering ways.) 

Our lives were centered on the land, books, travel, and eventually two 
sons (in reverse order of importance). Then one day in the early Fifties, 
remembering a trip we had made across the country with Rivers of America 
books in the trunk of our car, James propositioned me. "You've always lived 
on the headwaters of the French Broad in North Carolina and I've always 
lived along its Tennessee course. Why don't you write a book about our 
river?" (He should have said "we" because the research was always a joint 

It was a challenging suggestion and I wrote Rinehart Company (later 
Holt, Rinehart) to ask if they would be interested in a book about the French 
Broad. I didn't know they didn't know it was a river. There was considerable 
merriment in the office until an assistant who had visited Asheville set the 
editors straight. A letter informed me that diey weren't going to invest in any 
of the smaller rivers. Of course, if a book were interesting enough they would 
publish it about a river no wider than a man's hand. 

I took the challenge and sent them a chapter and an outline. 

The immediate response was favorable, except for my proposed 
chapter on pollution. They believed this would be a lively, fascinating 
book — and pollution was a dead subject! (Remember, this was the early 
Fifties.) I hesitated, then replied that I had to have this chapter but I would 
try to make it interesting. I would call it "Who Killed the French Broad?" 
Perhaps people would think it was a murder mystery. (Of course, it was a 
murder but not a mystery.) At publication that chapter received more 
response, from Raleigh to California, than any other part of the book. (Some 
of the Civil War history was also fresh and led Bernard DeVoto to sponsor me 
for a Guggenheim Fellowship.) 

Another detail I should mention to this audience: My editor asked if 
I had an illustrator in mind. I did not and would let them choose one from 
their roster. Almost immediately they informed me that they had sent the 
manuscript to one of their favorite artists, Douglas Gorsline, and he had called 
them. He liked the book, would be happy to be associated with it, and noticed 
that the author liked Thomas Wolfe. He had painted the only portrait for 
which Thomas Wolfe ever posed, and after Wolfe's deadi he made a copy for 
a young man from Tennessee, James Stokely. He wondered if these two knew 
each other. Indeed they did, the editor informed him. Wilma Dykeman was 
Wilma Stokely. 

Discovering the richness of diversity in our French Broad country, 
often taking our family along on our explorations, inspired us to look ever 
more deeply at die South where we lived, and the wider South stretching from 
Appalachia to die Gulf, from the Adantic to the Rio Grande. Every aspect of 
the region's life was experiencing historic change. (Sometimes it seems that 


the South has always been in the throes of historic change. Perhaps that's why 
it persists in producing so many strong writers.) 

We proposed a book of exploration across our region (messages from 
the front, as it were, and the front was everywhere) by two Southerners who 
had no title or commitments or hidden agenda beyond a deep desire to see our 
region come to grips with its history, using its rich variety of resources to 
create a world of made that would reenforce the world of born with which it 
was/is so blessed. 

Holt gave us a contract. 

We clipped back into our own history and read voraciously, from the 
most distinguished scholars to the most vicious diatribes. And we traveled. 
Along a dusty rural road we witnessed the chilling anonymity of KKK hoods 
and robes at a gathering in a country churchyard, and at a landmark meeting 
of the Southern Historical Association we heard William Faulkner voice his 
famous challenge on the inevitability of racial justice. From Charleston's 
Battery to Houston's oil fields the South was many Souths with one factor that 
held them all hostage: race. The tide of our book, Neither Black Nor White, was 
meant to suggest that the South is also the color of green — in woods and 
fields and money; red as in blood; blue and gold as in water and sky and 
sunlight. Sometimes greed eroded goodness but joy in another corner of the 
region refreshed belief in the world of born and spirit. 

The New York Times Magazine condensed parts of the book and 
eventually we wrote numerous articles for it and other publications. (When 
the Times celebrated its centennial, an article of ours was selected as one of the 
one hundred best from among those 5,200 weeks of publication. In the index 
we were listed between DuBois and Einstein, heady company for writers 
whose home/office remained in the suburbs of the Great Smoky Mountains.) 

Altogether I wrote three books with my husband. Two of these 
brought us into the orbit of Terry Sanford who wrote introductions to our 
book for Time-Life, The Border States, and Prophet of Plenty, the latter a 
biography of educator and social visionary, W. D. Weatherford. One of the 
fringe benefits of writing is acquaintance with a few of the giants among 
leaders of our time, and Governor Sanford's legacy reaches across this 
state — and beyond. 

Writing a book with each of my sons was a challenge, an adventure, 
and above all a treat. We managed to put professional above personal 
predilections in style and content. 

My three novels I had to write alone. They are my favorite of 
eighteen books. 

The spirit of my mentors' rooted hearts and radiating intellects still 
lives. In 1977 James Stokely, while working in his garden following lectures 
at a writer's workshop, suffered a massive heart attack and died instantly, lying 


on the fresh, green grass. We met in a garden and we parted in a garden. His 
generous spirit speaks in books and poems he wrote, in his sons' lives — and 
in the woodlands he saved for future generations. 

And Bonnie Dykeman's spirit is still at The Place. A final effort of 
her life was planting a yellow lady-slipper she rescued from a roadside 
salesman. This spring there were twenty-three blossoms proclaiming her 
nurture of the world of born. 

In the world of born is our survival. 



Tributes to Wilma Dykeman 

Including Proceedings of a Banquet on the Occasion of Her 

Acceptance of the North Caroliniana Society Award for 2001 

The North Carolina Arboretum, Asheville, 16 June 2001 


SPK4KERS during the North Caroliniana Society Award Banquet on 16 June 2000 
ivere (left to right, top to bottom) H. G. Jones, Willis P. Whichard, George Briggs, Robert 
Morgan, Dykeman Stokely, and Jim Stokely. 

Remarks and Introductions 

H. G. Jones 

Friends of Wilma Dykeman, fellow North Carolinians: 

One has only to look through these windows to the magnificent views 
to understand why, for the first time, the North Caroliniana Society wanted 
to come to Wilma Dykeman's home grounds for its annual meeting and award 
ceremony. True, Wilma would have brightened up any venue down around 
Chapel Hill and Raleigh, but here in this beautiful setting we flatlanders can 
share the exhilaration of standing tiptoe on the rim of heaven. So, Wilma, 
thank you for letting many of your lowland — even lowbrow — friends come 
to your mountains to share this evening with you, your sons, and so many of 
the people who are closest to you both in terms of friendship and geography. 
We know how much this very institution, the North Carolina Arboretum, 
means to you, and it is especially fitting that we gather here to recognize your 
illustrious career. 

Before we proceed further, we should acknowledge that this event 
would not have been possible without the assistance of our Asheville friends. 
Just so we can say thank you, will the following please stand and remain 
standing, and will the audience withhold our applause until all have 
recognized: George Briggs, executive director of the North Carolina 
Arboretum, who kindly invited us to this grand facility; Kendra Rudeen, who 
handled the details here onsite; Ron Holland, head of the western office of the 
State Division of Archives and History and his wife Kathy and staff members 
John Beaver, Nick Lanier, and Christine Saitta, who performed many chores; 
and two members of the Society from Asheville, Senator Marie Colton and 
Judge Harry Martin, who so warmly welcomed us. [Applause.] 

We are deeply touched by the generosity of Hart Squire of Hart 
Distributors of Weaverville for the donation of the wine in memory of his 
mother, Elizabeth Daniels Squire, and the floral display before me is also in 
her memory; our hearts are with Chick and his family. 

The Society's slogan, "Substance, not Show," explains why our award 
presentations are not publicized widely through the press or airwaves: we want 


the recipient to be among relatives and friends. We were pleased, however, 
that our President Emeritus Bill Friday took this occasion to interview Wilma 
for his "North Carolina People" program, which will be aired on WUNC-TV 
next week. In addition, the entire proceedings of this event, including Wilma's 
afternoon address, will be published later this year in our North Caroliniana 
Society Imprints series, and each of you will receive by mail a copy as a 
permanent record. 

Some in this audience have known Wilma much longer than I, but my 
first contact with her 45 years ago was documented by a photograph, which 
will remind Wilma of the occasion. It was on 13 November 1956 that she 
came to the North Carolina State Archives to conduct research in connection 
with the forthcoming book Neither Black Nor White, and her visit was also 
captured in a diary that I have been keeping for 64 years. Of course, back in 
those days it never occurred to me that a married woman could keep her 
maiden surname, so I wrote, "I took Mrs. Wilma Dykeman Stokely (wife of 
Stokely Vegetables and author of the French Broad) to Hofbrau for lunch. Very 
delightful time. She is a good conversationalist." The second day, she 
researched in the Archives and spoke to our staff. On the third morning we 
met at the S&W cafeteria for breakfast, and I drove her to Durham, where 
she spoke before the Southern Historical Association. My diary verdict: 
"Heard Mrs. Stokely's paper on Southern Demogogues — excellent." Soon 
afterward, "Mrs. Stokely" became "Wilma," and a warm association has 
continued over the years. For example, in the 1950s the Southern Historical 
Association admitted a few black historians to its membership, but of course 
they were not permitted to sleep or eat in the all-white hotels. At a meeting 
at Emory University, Wilma and I supported a resolution, to the scowls of 
many of our learned colleagues, that would have instructed the council to 
select no headquarters hotel that refused service to any of our members. We 
lost the batde that day, but we won the war, for enough consciences were 
touched that within a few years the issue was quiedy setded. Wilma 
Dykeman's influence has extended far beyond the readers of her books. 

Like the mountains that she loves, Wilma ranges on both sides of our 
western state line — in fact, she was named State Historian of Tennessee and 
wrote the bicentennial history of our western province — but we claim her as 
our own, and we are honored tonight to hear from three persons that we also 
claim as our own. 

Two of them know her so well that she may be afraid that they will 
tell too much. She, though, will have a chance for rebuttal. 

Following the law of primogeniture, Dykeman C. Stokely goes first. 
Dykeman graduated from Yale with honors in English and received his 
master's degree from Duke University. Like his parents, he has followed a 
literary career, participating in conferences and festivals and coauthoring with 


his mother the text for the popular book, Appalachian Mountains. In 1982 he 
accompanied directors of the Phelps-Stokes Fund of New York on a trip to 
China and wrote a report on "Education in Minority Regions of China." 
Studies in anthropology and archaeology have taken him to Europe, South 
America, and Asia. He now lives in New York and is the owner and publisher 
of a small press, Wakestone Books, which distributes books of the region 
across the country with special attention to schools. Dykeman Stokely. 

[Dykeman Stokely's tribute begins on page 16.] 

James R. Stokely III is a Phi Beta Kappa graduate of Yale and holds 
an M.B.A. from Stanford University. He has combined a scholarly and 
business career. The author of a variety of publications, one of his especially 
notable accomplishments was the initiation and administering of a unique 
four-year adult education program tided "An Appalachian Experience," 
attended by 25,000 participants at Oak Ridge, Tennessee, and culminating in 
An Encyclopedia of East Tennessee. Jim's business career has taken him to 
California, Georgia, Kentucky, and now to Massachusetts, where he is 
Director of Human Resources for the General Lighting Division of Osram 
Sylvania. Jim married Anne Callison of Asheville, and they have presented 
Wilma with two grandchildren named Elizabeth and Will. Jim Stokely. 

[Jim Stokely's tribute begins on page 20.] 

Here, fewer than 25 miles from his birthplace near Zirconia, Robert 
Morgan — like Wilma — is at home, and we are delighted that his mother, Mrs. 
Fannie L. Morgan, could be here to hear both him and Wilma. In reading 
Robert Morgan's poetry and prose, we suspect that if this farm boy was ever 
bored in the fields or around the barns, it was because he couldn't wait to get 
back to his pen and paper (and eventually typewriter) to record his perception 
of everything and everybody around him. In both poetry and fiction, Robert 
Morgan writes about die raz/Appalachia, the real people, for, as Fred Chappell 
says, he "knows every corner, every inch, of the way of life he portrays," and 
he proves that the soil of Henderson County has produced not only pole 
beans — which seem to have played an important role in his life — but also an 
author who can paint word pictures of that life accurately, vividly, and 
poignandy. Who else could have made poetry out of a junkyard, a hubcap, a 
June Bug, a hogpen, even an earache? Unlike Julie Harmon and Hank 
Richards who spent such a terrible year on Gap Creek south of the border, 
Robert Morgan's sojourn across state lines has been a happy one, but like Julie 
and Hank, he, too, knows when it is time to return. That he is here tonight 
to honor a fellow literary artist in whose shadow he grew to manhood 
reassures us that even as an acclaimed author and distinguished professor at 
one of the nation's leading universities, Cornell, he has never really left North 
Carolina. Welcome home, Robert Morgan. 

[Robert Morgan s tribute begins on page 23.] 

Reflections of the First Son 

Dykeman Stokely 

About the time I started school, I became aware of the strangeness 
of my parents' occupation, that of writers. I noticed that my mother spent 
much of her day on our porch or in a chair upstairs absorbed in reading and 
writing while facing the mountains. For a few minutes I would like to describe 
how my mother's husband and her mother helped clarify for my brother and 
me what this unusual activity meant. My father, in particular, with a 
personality which reached out to all people and things, loved to form 
connections between the mountain region and the larger American society that 
must have influenced my mother in her work. 

Our father would himself read and write in a room next to my 
mother's and often visited her to share Ins ideas. At lunch and dinner, on the 
other hand, he shared with the whole family excerpts from a motley of 
newspaper articles and books covering every subject imaginable. He also 
occasionally and unexpectedly recited Shakespeare's soliloquies and his own 
poetry to us in a dramatic manner. These presentations startled us and made 
us laugh but also, without our realizing it, aroused our curiosity and helped 
make the mysteries of reading and writing manifest to us. 

In addition to his literary preoccupations, my father spent part of the 
year like a farmer, growing a variety of vegetables and fruits in his large garden. 
In this garden my brother and I could witness nature as it changed through the 
seasons. This experience was reinforced by family car trips to nearby towns 
but also to distant national parks and cities. On these trips we could observe 
an astonishing array of natural and manmade environments. 

These trips tended to begin simply enough, on the interstate 
highways, but, especially on the return portions, included numerous side 
excursions on state and county roads that tried our patience since we were 
usually eager to return home. But our slow, all-inclusive travel enabled our 
mother to point out to us how man and nature could interact in the eyes of 
writers. She had us note and ponder, for instance, the sedge that Ellen 
Glasgow described in her South and the wind that permeated the West in 


Dorothy Scarborough's fiction. 

My brother and I also started to realize that other car trips, those that 
our parents took around the South without us, resulted in books and articles, 
although we did not read these works for some years. During the latter trips, 
we were left in the care of our grandmother, sometimes at her home in the 
woods near Asheville. 

The trip of theirs I remember the best was one from which they 
returned late one Christmas Eve. We were worried that they would not get 
back before the holiday, and I had bought some greenery that boys were 
selling from door to door. When our parents finally arrived in the evening, we 
learned that they had been observing the bus boycott in Montgomery. 

During the periods when our parents were away, our grandmother 
held our attention by reciting long narrative poems and tales and by 
remembering childhood friends and relatives. She and other mountain people, 
by providing each other with self-made entertainment such as storytelling, 
were able to enjoy living in the present moment and to connect themselves 
with larger communities of people and nature that surrounded them. 

On the other hand, my grandmother's husband, the grandfather we 
never knew, was described to us by my grandmother and mother as a farmer 
who came originally from the North and frequently read for hours in books 
about history. He would point out to my mother, when she was a girl, that the 
realms of history and geography reached even into the mountains around 
Asheville. Later, after our mother's novels began to appear, my brother and 
I perhaps drew an unconscious connection between them and the gifts of her 
parents — her father's historical understanding and the living oral traditions 
that her mother represented. Also, we could not help but notice our mother's 
special focus on the natural world that the scholarly and folk worlds of her 
parents were each related to. 

Unlike my grandfather, my father's interest in history lay almost 
entirely in its direct connection to living people. Perhaps this interest in 
people, coupled with his amazing ability to remember facts, stimulated his 
proclivity for genealogy. He would hold people spellbound at parties as he 
told them of their possible relationship to well-known deceased persons such 
as his own distant relative by marriage, Frances Hodgson Burnett (famous for 
Utile Lord Fauntkroy and The Secret Garden) who, when asked by her publisher 
why her early stories were so English in style, replied that she was a native of 
England (but by that time she left the mountains, the rural hardships she had 
observed had become a central part of her fiction). Unfortunately for the 
partygoers, my father was even more intrigued by unique mountain characters 
than by individuals of international renown, and it was sometimes only my 
father's enthusiasm that finally won people over as he discussed their 


Nothing pleased my father more than to feel like he was bringing the 
world of the intellect to the mountains or was making the mountains of 
interest to the larger society. Once, when my grandmother pointed out the 
home of a rather poor family near Reems Creek where she had grown up, my 
father insisted on a visit. When asked what kind of children they had, the 
mother of the family noted, "They're all good except for the young 'un over 
there — he's bad to read." "Bad to read?" my father questioned. "Why he 
would read all the time if we gave him books," she answered. Naturally, 
though he may have brought displeasure to the parents, this induced my father 
to provide the boy with an abundance of reading material. 

Another time, before I was born, a would-be actor and scholar in 
New York had borrowed money in order to make a pilgrimage to the South 
for Thomas Wolfe's funeral. Of course, it was he, rather than the celebrities 
at the event, who interested my father the most, and they became friends. 
Later, while visiting the region again at my grandmodier's, the actor was sitting 
one afternoon among socialite friends my fadier's sister had brought up from 
Florida. At one point, he turned pale and stood up. Walking up to my 
grandmother, his hands shaking, he groaned, "I need a T. S. Eliot! I need a 
T. S. Eliot!" My grandmother rummaged through her house and finally 
unearthed a copy of Eliot's poetry. He was astonished and grateful that this 
woman raised in the mountains could oblige him and spare him mental 

As diese incidents show, my father, through his habit of introducing 
such varied people and social spheres to each other, offered a model to my 
modier of what a writer could also do — within a literary work. In her second 
novel, The Far Family, for example, my mother depicted the contrasts and the 
gulfs of communication that can exist inside a single family. 

I would like to conclude by noting the German translation of The Far 
Family, which did not borrow the original tide but instead was taken from the 
novel's ending. The last two paragraphs of the novel occur just after Ivy 
Thurston has said farewell at the airport to her son, the senator, who had 
come to solve a crisis involving her colorful brother Clay Thurston, a figure 
with both enormous flaws and virtues. They read as follows: 

Clay felt that no one cared. The point is, she thought, he didn't 
care enough himself. "Like me! Love me!" Clay had always 
demanded of the world, even when he was defying it most 
belligerently, fighting it most savagely. Perhaps especially then. 
But all the npping and tearing and rebellion had been a casing, a 
skin for the raw, quivering protoplasm of him which begged, "Like 
me! Love me! Let me know that I am here and that I matter to 
you because you wanted me, because without me your life would 
have been less gay, less real ... it would have been less. Let me 
believe that without mv life all life would have been smaller, less 



Ivy sighed. "But the secret — ah, Clay, the secret, was to say, 'I like! 

I love!' And then you possessed the world." 
The German translation of the second paragraph is the following: 

Ivy seuftze. "Aber das Geheimnis, Clay, das Geheimnis ist, selbst 

zu sagen: 'Ich brauche dich, ich liebe dich.' Und dann, Clay, ware 

die Welt dein gewesen." 

My mother, when she received a copy of the translation, thought that 
the tide, Dann Ware die Welt Dein Gewesen, taken from the last sentence, meant 
"Then you will the world possess" and was relieved to learn later it actually 
meant, "Then you would have the world possessed." But she was still 
disappointed that the original tide could not have been used. 

Reflections of the Second Son 

Jim Stokely 

Here's a story that speaks to a pair of qualities — determination and 
loyalty — that should be associated with Wilma Dykeman. In the 1930s, our 
dad purchased 200 acres of woodland in East Tennessee. This land stretched 
from Carson's Creek in the heart of the English Mountains all the way to the 
high ridge of that range, where you could see the Great Smoky Mountains to 
the east and a far flat vista to the west. On this land grew oak and poplar and 
all the fine hardwoods of the Southern mountains. After a steep initial rise 
from the creek, it eased out into a high plateau, where word had it that old 
man Baxter had farmed and flourished. A year-round stream gathered its 
waters on this land, and flowed into Carson's Creek through a canopy of 

After our parents got married, they moved to these 200 acres and 
built a small stone house. Thev named it Wakestone. The two largest pieces 
of furniture in Wakestone were a piano, which neither of them could play, and 
a Victrola, on which they listened to symphony after symphony and opera 
after opera on 78 rpm records. They later moved to the big brick house our 
grandfather had built in Newport fifty years earlier, and there they raised us. 
Sometimes we would return to die 200 acres and just walk in the woods. One 
winter after we had seen a movie called "The Track of the Cat," we tracked 
our parents through a foot of snow and caught them crouching in the middle 
of a grove of Mr. Baxter's grown-up pines on the high plateau. 

By the mid-1970s, money was tight. The Stokely- Van Camp canning 
fortune was long since in other people's hands, but that's another story. Our 
dad sold an occasional piece of mountain land near Asheville to pay for my 
brother's and my education at boarding school and college, but with 
something called "the energy crisis" just dawning, no one was buying more 
property. So we had to take a close look at the land in East Tennessee — not 
to sell it, but just to timber it, to selectively cut (in the words of the loggers) 
the best of what was there, which really meant to cut everything except the 
worst of what was there. 


So one day we walked up there with long faces to make the final 
decision. I couldn't see any alternative to selling the timber, but Mother had 
been approached by the Patiifinder Fund in Boston to write the biography of 
Edna Rankin McKinnon, a tireless worker for birth control. Now the last 
thing Mother wanted to do at that point in her life was to hire herself out for 
a year and to further delay the novel-writing that was closest to her heart. 
Even so, after we had walked the woods, as we were returning to our car, 
Mother said, "I've made up mind. We are not selling these trees. I'm going 
to write the Pathfinder book." So, if you're thinking that maybe the 
environment and such are nice little hobbies for Wilma Dykeman Stokely, you 
would be mistaken. My brother and I own those 200 acres today, and we're 
not selling, either. 

So much for determination and loyalty; now for the good stuff. The 
good stuff in any life includes at least four things: remembering the past, 
travel, laughter, and looking forward to the future. 

Remembering the past. We're doing a lot of remembering this evening. 
I grew up thinking of the French Broad River as "Mommy's river." One of 
my first strong memories is lying across my mother's lap in our 1955 gray-and- 
white Buick, feeling the evening breeze on my back while Daddy drives us 
around the curves beside the French Broad on old Highway 25 between 
Marshall and Asheville. Remembering the past reminds us that we are not 
alone, that (as Wendell Berry has said) our community includes the living and 
the dead, and that we can probably see them all around us if we look hard 

Travel. We took some great family trips. In 1961 we drove through 
New England and Canada to the Seatde World's Fair. Our family, which on 
significant trips always included Bonnie Cole Dykeman, or "Grandma Dyke," 
visited western Europe in die summer of 1965. It was a wonderful experience 
winch Mother wrote about in her book, Look to This Day. In the mid-1970s, 
Mother and I drove to Massachusetts for two weeks to research the Thomas 
Wolfe papers at Harvard. We learned a lot on that trip, much of which can be 
summed up by a mistake someone made while editing "The Return of the 
Prodigal." In Eliza Gant's great monologue, Wolfe has his mother refer to 
"old Craggy towerin' in the background." Anyone who has lived in western 
North Carolina knows that Craggy is a mountain. But somehow this got 
mangled in The Hills Beyond into "old Craggy Tavern in the background." Talk 
about stereotyping. Travel is the enemy of stereotypes. Travel takes us 
beyond ourselves, and reminds us that there's more in heaven and earth than 
could possibly be dreamt of in our philosophy — different people, animals, 
plants, worlds. 

Laughter. One day Mother and I found ourselves in the basement of 
the visitor center of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park at Sugarland, 


just outside of Gatlinburg. We were selecting old photographs to include in 
our history of the people of the Great Smokies. One of the rangers 
mentioned that a file drawer in the corner contained some old books. We 
opened that drawer and discovered a neat stack of Horace Kephart's leather- 
bound diaries. We told the rangers, "You might as well get used to our faces 
because we're moving in for a while." Over the next few days, we relished one 
discovery after another in Kephart's day books. For example, Kephart 
brought to a family on Hazel Creek a sack of shortbread biscuits they'd never 
seen before. The eight-year-old son took one out behind the corncnb. 
Kephart noted this and wandered over later, where he saw a hot coal from the 
hearth fire lying on top of the biscuit and turning it black. The boy explained, 
"I thought it was a turtie, and I wanted to see it husde." Well, Mother and I 
read this and started laughing and couldn't stop. We laughed harder and 
harder until one or both of us became hysterical, or at least to the point where 
a couple of rangers came down the stairs and asked if they could help us in 
any way. So we've had a lot of laughs. 

Looking forward to the future. And folks, this is not the end of the line. 
Mother has a lot of talks to make, a lot of places to see, a lot to write, a lot to 
laugh about. Then there's my brother and me, and my wife, Anne Callison 
Stokely, and the next generation after us — Elizabeth Dykeman Stokely and 
William Callison Stokely — and the people of the southern mountains, who just 
go on and on. 

A. Good Spring 
Is Mighty Hard to Come By 

Robert Morgan 

My first encounter with the writing of Wilma Dykeman was her 
nonaction classic The French Broad. Reading that book was an important event 
in my education and my discovery of the history of my own region. No other 
book I read about Western North Carolina or the Southern Appalachians had 
a greater impact on me just when I was discovering both the place and my 
interest in writing about it. The French Broad is such a vivid book and such a 
loving book. It is packed with information and insight and brilliant writing, 
environmental consciousness, and gives us such a living sense of the land, the 
watershed of the French Broad, the geology and geography, the Cherokee 
Indians and early explorers, the settlers and the development of the culture of 
the area. I read it twice as a young writer, and learned about the community 
and culture along the river, and about myself. 

If I had to choose one image from The French Broad to illustrate what 
inspired me most, it would be the motif of springs. Wilma Dykeman's 
descriptions of the headsprings of the river, and the importance of springs to 
the people, thrilled me and helped me remember much about our own spring 
I had forgotten. I had grown up drinking from and looking into springs. 
The cold spnngs of these mountains, the springs which 
feed with thousands of steady streams to make a river, have been 
valued for generations by the families they feed. If halfway up a 
hillside or deep in the heart of some remote cove you see a house 
and wonder why its people built there rather than on easier slopes, 
the answer is probably their water. Cupped in a clear steady pool 
under a thicket of blackberry vines and old shade trees, their spring 
bubbles from the earth like a rare gift for the taking. 

When the buyers for the Great Smoky Park were 
appraising some of the small landholdings on the Tennessee 
boundary, one old fellow would come down from his little farm 


each day. "When'll you be a-getting to my place?" he'd demand of 
the buyers. 

"We'll be up there soon as we can," they'd reply. 

"Well, I'm just aiming to make sure you see my spring. 

You'd have to see it afore you could know the worth of my place." 

At last, after these urgings had interrupted work every 

morning for a week, one of the appraisers asked, "And what is it 

that's so special about this spring?" 

"Everything," the old man retorted. "But mainly its cold. 
Year round, it stays the same: two degrees colder than ice!" 

Springs influence not only homesites, but the location of 
towns as well. . . . And the old records of the entire region show 
consistently the influence of a bold spring on the location of 
church or school or camp-meeting ground. [Pp. 11-12.] 
A little later, when I read her fiction, I made equally significant 
discoveries about Western North Carolina and about writing fiction. I saw 
that the inevitable focus of fiction about the region was the land and the 
seasons, and the strong women who struggled on the land to raise children 
and feed large families, to keep their families together over the generations as 
decent and responsible people. There could be no better model for a young 
writer dian Wilma Dykeman's The Tall Woman. Lydia Moore McQueen is the 
glue and the inspiration that hold her family and community together across 
years of war, sickness, outliers, greed, disappointment, ignorance, prejudice. 
Lydia is very much an individual, but also a personification of the culture at 
its best. And her interest in springs, and the loving description of springs, are 
among the most memorable passages in the novel. On pages 176-177 the 
spring on her property is described and evoked with passionate detail. 
"And what are you doing on this bleak day on this 
godforsaken mountain?" Dr. Hornsby asked. 

She laughed at the gloom of his words, belied in part by 
the heartiness of his smile. "Cleaning mv spring." 

"And pray tell me, Lydia McQueen," he said, "how do 
you clean a spring? Do you wash the water?" 

"Don't be making fun of me! There" — she pointed with 
the hoe — "look under the ledged where the roots of those poplar 
trees are, and tell me if you ever set eyes on a bolder, finer spring 
than that? Or a cleaner one?" 

He went and looked. The natural bowl of water, 
surrounded on three sides and overhead by a ledge of rock and 
tangled web of roots and earth, stood clear and cold as glass. 
Around the spring and beside the stream that flowed from it were 
beds of moss and galax, a luxunant winter green, and the \ines of 
odier carefully preserved plants that bloomed in summer. On the 
far side and overhanging the spring, were a dozen wild blackberry 
stalks. There were no other briers or dead weeds or fallen limbs 


around this spot. Someone had worked here lovingly and well. 

"I never set eyes on a bolder, finer spring," he repeated. 
"Or a cleaner one." 

"This is my favorite place on our farm," she said. 
Near the end of the novel a spring ruined by logging and neglect is 
described. It is a spring where Lydia once lived when she was first married to 
Mark, and the spring is an index, a measure of the damage done to the land 
and families by carelessness and greed. The spring is the living source that 
must be cherished and protected. 

Years of rain seeping through that mound of sawdust had 
turned the water on the spring brackish. The spring itself was full 
of leaves, abandoned and diminished. She cleaned out handfuls of 
the leaves, down to the sandy bed, and waited for the water to flow 
clear again. The trickle came so slowly she could hardly believe 
this was the bold, fine spring she had once dipped into with deep 
buckets. When the sand had settled and the stream seemed pure 
again, she cupped her hands and took a drink of water. It was 
tepid and tasteless. 

She had gone back to Tom and her grandbaby. A wear) 7 
sadness and sense of age had settled over her. "Let's get on up to 
the mountain," she had said, trying to smile at them lightly. 

The very next day she had cleaned out her own spring 
and the spnnghouse where she kept her milk and butter and 
cream, and the vessels for milking and churning. With Jessie 
helping her, they had trimmed the shrubs and vines twining in the 
tree roots that sheltered the spring. When they were finished, only 
the fresh new growth of luxuriant leaves and ferns hung over the 
moss-covered stones. Then they cleaned the spring-run, swept 
down the cobwebs and mud daubers from the walls of the 
spnnghouse, scrubbed out the long trough where crocks and jars, 
covered widi white clodis and slabs of wood, sat in a cold, flowing 
stream. When they finished, she had smiled at Jessie and said, "I 
reckon I'm plumb foolish about this spring." 

"Well, Mama," Jessie teased her as they walked toward 
the house together, "I confess nght out, I'd hate for you to be put 
to the test to have to choose between it and" — she cast around for 
a startling comparison — "and me!" 

Lydia kept her face straight. "A good spring is mighty 
hard to come by," she had said gravely. [Pp. 305-306.] 
Water is an important theme in Wilma Dykeman's second novel, The 
Far Family, also. 

"One thing about this jumping-off-place your sawmillmg 
dragged us to, Tom Thurston," Aunt Tildy said, "it's got as good 
water as ever I tasted." 

"Now that's a fact," Tom agreed, pleased. 


"Only better water I know of anywhere," Martha said 
quietly, "is the spring on Grandpa Moore's farm." [P. 52.] 
This second novel follows the heirs of Lydia Moore McQueen far 
beyond the small farm in the mountains. It is a novel of growth, 
development, education, politics, finance and power, as Dykeman tells the 
story of this particular family in the twentieth century mountains and beyond. 
It is a story of family dynamics, of loyalty and conflict, betrayal and sacrifice. 
Two generations later Ivy visits the Moore homestead and feels the bond of 
blood and kinship across time. 

Two stone steps surrounded by moss and ferns and tiny wild 
flowers led down to the natural bowl of water, scooped deep in the 
sparkling sand, chilled by the secret depths from which it flowed. 
The spring's overflow ran under a stone slab into the springhouse 
where a long wooden trough held crocks, pitchers of milk, pans of 
butter in the cool constant stream of water. . . . 

There was more than land and buildings to the farm, 
however. There was a past, the presence of those who had turned 
this ground before, swept these floors and cleaned this 
springhouse during many yesterdays. Ivy had never before been 
part of this feeling of aged places, familiar paths. Her mother 
involved them in this sense of continuity and the children were 
captivated. [P. 104.] 

As in The French Broad and The Tall Woman, Dykeman shows a 
considerable knowledge and affection for rural mountain life in this second 
novel. She shows how much the sense of who we are comes from memory. 
But she also reveals an equally acute understanding of modern city life, of the 
worlds of business, politics, affluent families. There is a knowing satiric edge 
to her portraits of country clubs and cocktail parties, the chemistry of political 
events, romance among the upper classes. In The Far Family she takes us from 
Jesse Moore's springhouse to the champagne at a country club bash three 
generations later. 

Phil Cordand, die young senator and descendant of Lydia McQueen, 
returns to his hometown at a moment of family crisis, and attends a dinner 
party with his old flame Sherry. 

Phil talked with them all, effortlessly using the attentive 
interest in other people which was his greatest political asset. 
There were the middle-aged young, the middle-aged old, natives 
and newcomers, the pleasandy wined and dined and the outright 
drunk, the ones on the way up, the ones on the way down and 
those who were holding on. The chief fact that struck him about 
them was how much alike they were. [P. 31 1.] 

One of the themes Dykeman dramatizes in The Far Family is the 
standardization of modern life. With the coming of roads and railroads, mass 
communication, outside investment and industry, the mountain region 


becomes more and more like every other part of the country. With the gains 
of prosperity come the loss of character, distinctiveness. Identity is 
increasingly a matter of money. 

Phil felt that he might be in the state capital or 
Washington or any other city — for these were not unique 
Nantahala people; they were as standardized as identical hairstyles, 
clothes, jokes, food, newspapers, and rebellious offspring could 
make them. But although they are not unique, neither were they 
universal. Paradoxically, just as Ivy and the family were 
unique — -exasperatingly, humorously, sadly so — they were also 
touched by universality and Phil knew that his mother could have 
walked among the people in the foreign lands he had visited and 
won their fnendship." [P. 314.] 

I know of no work of fiction that reveals more effectively the 
loneliness and emptiness in the lives of so many of the prosperous and 
powerful, the outstandingly successful, than The Far Family does. In the post- 
war boom the region has risen to undreamed of affluence. Families with 
memories and roots in dirt farms are living in mansions, managing banks, 
mingling with factory owners, senators, and governors. Yet Phil is 
overwhelmed by a feeling of emptiness and pointlessness. The political world 
is not at all what he imagined it would be. 

As he went to get the car, Phil sighed in exasperation 
both with himself and with the evening. He had never seen a 
lonelier, more desperate, group of people. They held on to their 
little club to show how closely they were bound together, and 
essentially they were as uncommitted to one another as the lion 
and impala of the jungle were uncommitted to each other. They 
made up for a lack of true community with the trappings of 
"community spirit." Words replaced actions. Symbols passed for 
realities. [P. 315.] 

Phil's uncle, Clay Thurston, is the most memorable and most painful 
character in The Far Family. He is a brilliant, gifted, unpredictable man who 
has never found his calling. He veers from extremes of loyalty and cruelty. 
His wit is quick and destructive. His life has gone out of control. He 
represents some of the worst and some of the best in the generation of 
Thurstons before Phil's. Clay represents a waste of talent and ambition. He 
is the genius of the family and of the region gone wrong. Everything about 
Clay's life is paradoxical. He has tried to leave, yet he has returned. He is by 
turns mean and generous, loyal and betraying, arrogant and apologetic. He is 
the personification of the generation that has lost its way. He has a sharp 
tongue and a self-destructive anger. He is possibly a murderer. 

"You think the world is all so well arranged. You live here in your 
pretty little room, and you make everything tidy. Well, deep down 
in the gut of it all, it's nothing but chaos." He said it triumphantly, 


as if in victory rather than defeat. He went on talking. 

But Ivy was listening to what he was not saying as well as 
what he was putting into words. And even as Clay spoke, as he 
seemed so positive, the question was in his eyes. . . . Only 
someone who ached to believe in purpose, design, could disbelieve 
so fiercely. [P. 347.] 

Clay Thurston is one of Dykeman's most memorable characters. He 
has given most of his life to gambling. He is hopelessly addicted to gambling, 
not only with cards and dice and roulette wheels, but with his friendships and 
loves, with his family, his career, with life itself. Gambling is so much a part 
of him, Clay only feels alive when the stakes are high and the odds long. 
What mattered was this exultation rising like a gorge within him. 
Clay Thurston bestrode the world. Whatever he might have 
undertaken in that moment — conquest of a queen, a country, a 
continent — he could not have been denied. Or deflected. Or 
defeated. For he was a conqueror. Alexander the Great and 
Hannibal over the Alps, Napoleon and a whole covey of Caesars. 
He knew what they had felt. He, too, was invincible. 

Of course, in the end, sometime around noon, the dice 
had begun to grow cold. [P. 350.] 

More than any other character in Wilma Dykeman's fiction, Clay 
embodies the contradictions and cross purposes in our modern region. 
Addicted to gambling, to risk, to self-destruction, he is drawn also to 
sentiment, to family loyalty. And he is also drawn to mockery and cruelty. He 
cares and does not care. He is successful as a builder, and he is a failure as a 
husband, son, brother, uncle. He is smarter than most, and yet in everyone's 
eyes, including his own, he is a failure and an embarrassment. 

After his death his sister Ivy contemplates his character, and the 
sadness of his fate. Ivy is the character who most closely represents the point 
of view of the reader, and perhaps the author, in The Far Family. Ivy thinks: 
Clay felt that no one cared. . . . Clay had always 
demanded of the world, even when he was defying it most 
belligerently, fighting it most savagely. . . . But all the ripping and 
tearing and rebellion had been a casing, a skin for the raw, 
quivering protoplasm of him which begged, "Like me! Love me! 
Let me know that I am here and that I matter. . . ." 

Ivy sighed, "But the secret — ah Clay, the secret, was to 
say, 'I Like! I Love!' And then you possessed the world." [P. 372.] 
One of the special things about Dykeman's third novel, Return the 
Innocent Earth, is that the first person narrative sections are spoken by a 
contemporary male character, Jonathan Clayburn, Jr. Jon is a senior vice- 
president of Clayburn-Durant Foods, and he is the presiding conscience and 
consciousness in the story. Readers and reviewers are often surprised when 
women authors write from a male perspective, and male authors write from 


a woman's point of view. But one of the glories of fiction writing, and 
reading, is the discovery of the world through other eyes, other voices. The 
way stories connect with other lives keeps us reading, and writing them. One 
of the rewards of fiction is this reaching across the boundaries of gender, 
geography, class, race, ethnicity, religion, even language. And not least is the 
way fiction can give us a window on the past, reaching across the generations 
to give us a sense of kinship and community with those who came before us. 

Return the Innocent Earth is a dynastic story, the story of the building of 
a canning corporation in East Tennessee and then across the nation. It is a 
story of seed time and harvest, from mountain spring to the boardroom. 
Most of all it is the story of a family, the Clayburn family, beginning with 
Elisha and Mary on their farm in the mountains, and the extended family of 
community and business. It is a story of growth, from pumpkin patch to 
preferred stock. 

Return the Innocent Earth reveals an astonishing knowledge of business, 
the metiiods of business and organization, the cultures of business, the ethics 
of business. I know of no other novel that gives such an intimate and 
sweeping view of the process of business growth, the setbacks and triumphs, 
the uncertainties and vision, decision making and how personalities define 
policies as much as rules and principles. The novel should be required reading 
in every business school. 

As Dykeman revealed a considerable insight into the political world 
in The Ear Eamily, the country club and courthouse, she shows a special 
understanding of the process of manufacturing, development, research, and 
marketing in Return the Innocent Earth. She illustrates with precision and clarity 
the technology and experiments that go into modern business. The novel is 
an education in methods of research, quality control, labor studies, 
environmental concerns. The novel is a portrait of industry, including both 
the horrors and the industrial sublime. There is a feeling for the thrill of 
enterprise, competitiveness, growth, the drive toward excellence and winning. 

The character named Stull is the embodiment of ruthless ambition, 
blind ambition. Rather than cooperation, communication, team play, he 
relishes the fight itself, and victory, whatever the cost. His instincts are those 
of a killer. 

Stull wanted something. And whatever it was, he wanted it 

exclusively and totally and at the cheapest price possible. Whoever 

sat opposite him was automatically an adversary. Winning was all. 

[P. 8.] 

But Stull's cousin Jon, the narrator of much of the book and the 
leading character, sees competition and industry in another way. He sees the 
company not only as its products and profits, but as the people who 
contribute, who do die daily work. The company includes die soil from which 


the crops grow, and the food to nourish and nurture a society. 

This mid-town, five-story brick building grew from the wide flat 
cornfields surrounding this midwestern metropolis where the 
Durants had built a food empire, and grew from the nver-bottom 
acres in the mountain South where the Clayburns had built their 
business, and grew from the cool acres of clear chartreuse spring 
peas in Wisconsin. . . . The fragrance of ketchup gathered all up 
on one bouquet. [Pp. 20-21.] 

A major theme in Return the Innocent Earth is the need and importance 
of remembering. Men like Stull have no interest in the past. They only want 
to move forward, toward the bigger and richer, the more powerful. But Jon 
Clayburn, Jr. wants to keep in touch with the past, his family past, with its 
roots in land and place. He says, "I could remember. I needed to remember." 
[P. 21.] 

Canning is part of two worlds and there is no escaping 
either. Land and computers. Seeds and machinery. Weather and 
sales charts. The gone-before and yet-to-come are by-products of 
every can we fill. Yet in those big, sleek central offices in the 
midwestern metropolis where I live, we lose touch. [P. 35.] 
Return the Innocent Earth is Jon's act of remembering, of reconnecting,. 
He knows that to know himself he must connect with the past, with his family 
past and the region's past. To lose the past is to lose identity, to lose the 
present and future also. We know who we are because we know what came 
before us. 

I come from a line of remembering people. In 
generations past we built churches and ballads and a way of life out 
of our remembering, handing down words the way others pass 
along designs woven into coverlets, carved into wood, or worked 
into clay. But now that is going too — the woven words and the 
cloth and aU. [P. 36.] 

Clear water is a motif in Return the Innocent Earth as it is in the two 
novels that precede it. When Jonathan Clayburn, Sr. tells his dream to Cebo, 
he describes darkness, and narrowness, lostness and fear. It is a dream of 
anxiety and confusion, until he hears the sound of water. 

... I heard an unbelievable sound. It was running water. When 
I looked, I found the boldest, clearest river seen on this round 
globe. And I lay nght down in its swift, deep current and it earned 
me through a passage in the mountains and out near home. [P. 

After he describes his dream Cebo, the ancient voice of folklore and 
wisdom, responds, "That about the best luck can come, a dream of clear 

Water is always the sign of continuity, of health, of renewal, in 
Dykeman's fiction. It is an almost Biblical symbol of life. 


What a gallery of portraits we get in Return the Innocent Earth. Some are 
legends to the narrator, Jon Clayburn, Jr., and they come to seem like legends 
to us: the young Elisha Clayburn who began the timber business and the 
drover business that led to the family prosperity; Mary Clayburn his widow, 
the tough, strict, wise matriarch, dogmatic and driven; Old Cebo, born in 
slavery, family employee, rememberer and seer, seer and sayer, the Tiresias of 
the story; Nora Stull Clayburn, the debutante from Richmond who marries 
into the rising family; Lonas Rankin, gifted and independent black man, victim 
of prejudice; Stull Clayburn, manic and desperate in his fight for corporate 

As die Clayburn family grows increasingly affluent, they become part 
of the very fabric of the city of Churchill and the society of the region. They 
are dedicated to business, to growth, to rising in the world. Their credo is 
summarized in Chapter Five. 

They believed in the brick house. . . . They believed in the 
white clapboard church. . . . They believed in the concrete 
courthouse. At Churchill's core, it filled a ragged square of 
trampled grass. . . . 

They believed in the rock-veneered bank. . . . 
These were the boundanes of Clayburn belief, translated 
into wood and solidified into mortar: Family. God. Law. Money. 
And they translated into big slipper}- words: love, purpose, order, 
security. [Pp. 151-152.] 

Dykeman has a special understanding of the code of maleness. I can't 
think of a contemporary fiction writer who has portrayed better the masculine 
sense of self. As Jon Clayburn describes his own growth, his own recognition 
of what it means to become a man, to act like a man in a man's world, we 
recognize the accuracy of his account, the truth of his realization. 

But I knew the code I had broken with Stull. Even then 
I knew, although I could not have put it into words. We 
(especially we boys, we men) were not supposed to discuss the 
innerness of life. We were supposed to observe true division of 
Sunday from Monday. We were splintered into a half-dozen 
fragments and our maturity was measured not by trying to make 
the parts into a whole but by juggling the pieces cleverly, 
separately, so that no one saw the empty spaces. ... I remained 
acutely aware of the embarrassment most Clayburns felt in 
confronting or discussing the creative, spiritual, moral, sexual, 
intangible forces of our lives. [Pp. 161-162.] 

Perhaps the most moving scene in the novel is tiiat where the brother 
Dan has let slip an obscene phrase in front of his mother, Mary Clayburn. He 
and Ins siblings are paralyzed by embarrassment. All wait in terror to see what 
the strict Maty Clayburn will do to punish him. It is a very tense scene. She 
surprises them, and us, by ordering Dan to go out and break a hickory, then 


sends him back to get a larger switch, and then orders him to whip her, since 
if he has done wrong it is her fault. She is his mother and she is responsible. 
He breaks down in tears, but she will not let him off. 

The sigh of the supple birch bough echoed down the 

"Again, Daniel. Harder." 

The sound of the striking and the crying mingled. 
"Much harder." 

Eventually the ordeal was finished. They heard the 
switch strike against the wall and fall to the floor as Dan flung it 
away from him. They heard him run upstairs. [Pp. 188-189.] 
Jonathan Clayburn, Sr. survives typhoid and loses his first love, the 
part-Cherokee nymph of the woods, Laura Rathbone. He eventually marries 
Livie Lee Montgomery of the local banking family. World War One comes 
and goes. One of the best portraits in the novel is Dykeman's description of 
the affluent Montgomery family. 

Along with heirlooms of silver and rosewood and 
mahogany, along with legends of lavish sociability and leadership, 
the family legacy included the flaring nostnls, white and tight; the 
blazing eyes; the hard mouth blasting forth blasphemy and 
destruction; the raging body and unreasonable mind that won its 
moment's victory — and lost everything. This remained as part of 
the legacy of black slavery, this white self-slavery whose adherents 
believed in the paramount importance of its own whims and 
wishes, believed that each should be fulfilled. [P. 265.] 
Jonathan Clayburn, Jr. is not satisfied with the success of the 
Clayburn-Durant corporation. Is the company harming employees and 
customers with die sprays they use on crops? Are they polluting the streams 
near their canning factories? Are they spoiling the land, and the communities 
where they operate? Has the family lost its integrity, purpose, loyalty? Its 
activities have come to seem suspect to Jon. 

. . . [W]e searched for answers, for certainty and meaning in the 
labyrinths of machines, laboratories, charts more sophisticated 
than die pattern of the heavens on a starry night. We reached for 
meaning in power, the small, fragmented but nevertheless tangible 
power of a company's products and payroll and financial mystique. 
Yet the meaning eluded us. [P. 352.] 

In the end Jonathan realizes he must take charge and confront his 
cousin Stull and his ruthless policies, before all is ruined. He must wrestle 
control of the company from Stall's manic, drunken, and perhaps mad 
obsession with power. He must return the company to the more democratic, 
reasonable and responsible policies that made them successful in the first 
place, and over the long haul. 

Knowing, remembering how the kernel of our victories 


is defeat, that the winner may become a reincarnation of the 
enemy he thought to vanquish, I pause — and feel my hand 
clutched inside my jacket pocket. I consider Burl Smelcer and the 
revelation he has flashed into my insulated life, calling into account 
both the realism I serve and the idealism I cherish. 

Now the real contest begins. Within myself. What do I 
want? Want above all? And what am I willing to pay? [P. 428.] 
Besides her fiction, Wilma Dykeman has published more than a dozen 
books of nonfiction. With her husband James Stokely, Jr. she has given us 
sensitive and progressive studies of the modern South, and with her sons 
Dykeman Stokely and James Stokely III haunting portraits of the people of 
the Smokies. She has enriched us with a memorable history of the battle of 
Kings Mountain, and the poetry of "Haunting Memories." 

It is an honor to pay tribute to Wilma Dykeman, who has contributed 
so much to the region, and to Asheville, with her writing. Like a mountain 
spring, she has given us a bold, steady stream of sparkling words over the 
years. Her presence has been an inspiration to so many contemporary writers, 
and certainly she has been an inspiration to me. I am proud to say that she is 
one of our state's treasures, and I am proud to say that she belongs to us here, 
in the mountains. 

Presentation of the A.ward 

Willis P. Which ard, President of the Society 

Dykeman, Jim, Robert, thank all of you for your splendid perspectives 
on our honoree. 

If you will look at the easel in front of the room, you will see a 
photograph of the sterling silver trophy representing the North Caroliniana 
Society Award. That two-handled cup is the result of the Society's decision 
in 1991 to give to John and Ann Sanders the task of selecting a tangible 
symbol of the North Caroliniana Society Award. This is not just "another" 
cup; it already had a distinguished history connecting the family of Thomas 
Jefferson with diat of Calvin Coolidge. The story, too lengthy to be repeated 
at this hour, will be found in the Society's annual report for 1990-1991. The 
trophy was appropriately engraved with the wording, "The North Caroliniana 
Society Award for distinguished contributions to North Carolina history and 
culture." Then, to provide its proper exhibition in the North Carolina 
Collection, John and Ann designed and arranged for the crafting of a 
handsome mahogany stand, together with silver plates on which the names of 
recipients are engraved. The entire ensemble graces the North Carolina 
Collection's Reading Room. 

John and Ann also selected modest sterling cups, one of which is 
appropriately engraved and presented to each recipient. The simplicity of the 
cup is emblematic of the North Caroliniana Society's dedication to 
"Substance, not Show," the most essential quality we seek in each year's 

This year's recipient, like those before her, epitomizes substance over 
show. Wilma, please accept this cup as a symbol of the Society's award and 
make such remarks as you choose. 

Acceptance of the Award 

Wilma Dykeman 

A doctor once told Flannery O'Connor she had to have rest. She 
should do no work for at least a month. She protested that she was writing 
a book she had to finish. "Oh, that's all right," he replied, "just don't do any 

How refreshing it is to be with people who know that a writer, even 
a woman writer, is engaged in real work. Balancing that effort with the 
privilege and commitment of being a daughter, a wife, a mother, friend, and 
citizen of a community, provides an experience that is as rewarding as it is 
challenging. Seldom is that effort acknowledged so generously to such an 
illustrious gathering as we find here tonight. 

Wise and witty Mark Twain once observed that humans are the only 
creatures that blush — or need to. Tonight I blush, not for reasons that Mark 
Twain probably had in mind but for inadequate use of the tools of my trade: 

I never knew it was so difficult to say "thank you." I mean to say it 
in an original, deeply memorable way. 

Thank you. We train our toddlers to lisp it when they accept an 
adult's hug or toy. 

We nudge our teenagers to mumbled it when grandparents bring 
them a sweater two sizes too small or a kiddie's puzzle. 

Thank you. Clerks, salesmen, fundraisers, assure us of appreciation 
even before we have established any commerce with them. 

There is a true Thank You, however, that is simple and never shop- 
worn. I offer it tonight. 

Thank you, Judge Whichard, for outstanding leadership of this Society 
and especially for your gracious presentation of an award that carries a special 
distinction for any North Carolinian. 

Thank you, H. G. Jones, for your quiet, steadfast, and invaluable 
leadership in establishing the North Carolina Archives as one of our rich 
cultural resources (and for your warm-hearted, good-humored friendship 


through many years). 

During recent weeks there were moments when I questioned my 
wisdom in opening a floodgate to family memories that might be better left 
interred. Not to worry. Thank you, Dykeman and Jim, for coming from a 
distance to share this evening as we have shared so many unforgettable 
moments of surprise, travel, achievement, loss, understanding born out of 
misunderstanding, and above all, love. You and Anne and my two 
grandchildren are the light of my life. 

But how shall I say Thank You to Robert Morgan? I blush at my 
inability to give tihose two words new lustre. They must bear the weight of my 
appreciation for your thoughtful reading of the three novels. Every writer 
should find such a reader at sometime in her/his life. You entered the very 
head and heart of all that I tried to create in these stories of my place and my 
people. I suppose I should not have been surprised when certain passages you 
chose to read were my own favorites. Such attention requires time — of which 
you find too little, I'm sure — and a critical sense that is intellectually inclusive 
of both the academic and non-academic community, sensitive to the nuances 
of words and life. 

For your subtle insights and rare generosity of spirit, I thank you, 
Robert Morgan. I treasure your presence here tonight, your judgement, your 

Finally, I turn once more to Mark Twain's understanding of human 
nature. When Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn have tricked Aunt Polly's 
conventional community into believing they are dead, they hide in the church 
loft and attend their own funeral where they hear such praise and grief that 
they are almost moved to tears themselves. Isn't it a universal wish that Twain 
fulfills: that we might hear the excesses we hope our own funeral will inspire? 

If I've heard part of my own service tonight, I'm glad you pushed the 
boundaries of accuracy while I'm still here. I've enjoyed every minute of it. 

Thank you. Now I must get back to work. 





Paul Green 


Prank H. Kenan 


Albert Coates 


Charles Kuralt 


Sam]. Ervin, Jr. 


Archie K. Davis 


Sam Rugan 


H. G.Jones 


Gertrude Sprague Carraway 


North Carolina Collection 


John Tries Blair 


EeRqy T. Walker 


William C <& Ida H. Triday 


J. Carlyle Sitterson 


William S. Powell 


Hugh MacRae Morton 


Mary D.B.T & James Semans 


John E Sanders 


David Stick 


Doris Waugh Betts 


William McWhorter Cochrane 


Reynolds Price 


Emma Neal Momson 


Richard H. Jenrette 


Burke Davis 


Wilma Dyke man 


Taivrence T. Eondon 



WILMA DYKENL4N speaks as Robert Morgan and other friends listen. The head 
table at the banquet featured (left to right) H. G. Jones, Dykeman Stokely, Fannie 
Morgan, Willis Whichard, Wilma Dykeman, Robert Morgan, and Jim Stokely. 



FAMILY -4ND FRIENDS: Wilma Dykeman poses (top) with sons Dykeman and 
Jim, (middle) with Robert Morgan and his mother Fannie Morgan, and (bottom) with 
another writer-friend and mountain native, Fred Chappell. 



ROBERT MORG.4N and his mother Fannie Morgan visit with old friends, including 
fellow author Fred Chappell (top). At bottom, his mother chats with H. G. Jones and Fred 



Morton, and Marie Parker; (middle) Hugh Morton and Bill Cecil; and (bottom) Reita 
Rivers and Todd Bailey. 


MORE ADMIRERS: (Top) Bill Snider, Henry Lewis, and Flo Snider; (middle) George 
Briggs (Director of the North Carolina Arboretum) and friends; (bottom) Ed and Betty 



Marjorie and John Idol; (middle) Bob Anthony and Chick Squire; and (bottom) Kathy and 
Ron Holland. 

The North Caroliniana Society 

Wilson Library, Campus Box 3930 
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27514-8890 

Telephone (919) 962-1 172; Fax (919) 962-4452; E-mail: h & ones@emai/.nnc.edn 

Chartered on 11 September 1975 as a private nonprofit corporation under provisions 
of Chapter 55A ot the General Statutes of North Carolina, the North Caroliniana Society is 
dedicated to the promotion of increased knowledge and appreciation of North Carolina's 
heritage through the encouragement of scholarly research and writing in and teaching of state 
and local history and literature; publication of documentary materials, including the numbered, 
limited-edition North Caroliniana Society Imprints and North Caroliniana Society Keepsakes; 
sponsorship of professional and lay conferences, seminars, lectures, and exhibitions; 
commemoration of historic events, including sponsorship of markers and plaques; and through 
assistance to the North Carolina Collection of UNC-Chapel I Iill and other cultural organizations 
with kindred objectives. 

Incorporated by H. G.Jones, William S. Powell, and Louis M. Connor, Jr., who soon 
were joined by a distinguished group of North Carolinians, the Society was limited to a hundred 
members for the first decade. It elects from time to time additional individuals meeting its strict 
criterion of "adjudged performance" in service to their state's culture — i.e., those who have 
demonstrated a continuing interest in and support of the historical, literary, and cultural heritage 
of North Carolina. The Society, a tax-exempt organization under provisions of Section 501(c)(3) 
of the Internal Revenue Code, expects continued service from its members, and for its programs 
it depends upon the contributions, bequests, and devises of its members and friends. Its IRS 
number is 56-1119848. Upon request, contributions to the Society may be counted toward 
Chancellor's Club membership. The Society administers a fund, given in 1987 by the Research 
Triangle Foundation in honor of its retiring board chairman and the Society's longtime 
president, from which nearly 200 Archie K. Davis Fellowships have been awarded for research 
in North Carolina's historical and cultural resources. 

A highlight of the Society's year is the presentation of the North Caroliniana Society 
Award to an individual or organization for long and distinguished service in the encouragement, 
production, enhancement, promotion, and preservation of North Caroliniana. Starting with Paul 
Green, the Society has recognized Albert Coates, Sam J. Ervin, Jr., Sam Ragan, Gertrude S. 
Carraway, John Fries Blair, William and Ida Friday, William S. Powell, Maty and )ames Semans, 
David Stick, William M. Cochrane, Emma Neal Morrison, Burke Davis, Lawrence F. London, 
Frank H. Kenan, Charles Kuralt, Archie K. Davis, FI. G. Jones, J. Carlyle Sitterson, Leroy T. 
Walker, Flugh M. Morton, John L. Sanders, Doris Betts, Reynolds Price, Richard H. Jenrette, 
and Wilma Dykeman, and, on its sesquicentennial, the North Carolina Collection. 

The Society, without a bureaucracy and with volunteer staff, is headquartered in the 
North Carolina Collection, the "Conscience of North Carolina," which seeks to preserve for 
future generations all that is published by North Carolinians regardless of subject or language and 
about North Carolina or North Carolinians regardless of author or source. 


Willis P. Whichard, President 

Archie K. Davis (1911-1998) and William C. Friday, Presidents Emeriti 

William S. Powell, Vice-President 

FI. G. Jones, Secretary-Treasurer 

II. David Bruton, Betty A. Hodges, Dana Borden Lacy, Flenry W. Lewis, 

Nancy C. Lilly, W. Trent Ragland, Jr., John L. Sanders, Robert W. Scott, William D. Snider 

William McWhorter Cochrane, Honorary Life Director 


[continued from inside front cover] 

No. 18. The Emma Neal Morrison 1 Know (1989) 

by Ida Howe 11 Friday 

No. 19. Thomas Wolfe's Composition Books (1990) 
edited by Alice R. Cot ten 

No. 20. My Father, Burke Darn (1990) 
by Angela Dam-Gardner 

No. 21. A Half Century with Rare Books (1991) 
by iMwrence F. Condon 

No. 22. Frank H. Kenan: An Appreciation (1992) 
edited by Archie K. Daiis 

No. 23. Growing Up in North Carolina, Iry Charles Kuralt, and 
The Uncommon laureate, Iry Wallace H. Kuralt (1993) 

No. 24. Chancellors Extraordinary: J. Carlyle Sitterson and TeRny T Walker (1995) 
by William C Friday and Willis P. Whichard 

No. 25. Historical Consciousness in the Early Republic (1995) 
edited by H. G. Jones 

No. 26. Sixty Years with a Camera (1996) 
by Hugh M. Morton 

No. 27. William Gaston as a Public Man (1997) 
by John C Sanders 

No. 28. William P. Cumming and the Study of Cartograply (1998) 
edited by Robert Cumming 

No. 29. My Cove Affair with Carolina (1998) 
Iry Doris Waugh Betts 

No. 30. A Single but Huge Distinction (1999) 
by Reynolds Price 

No. 31. Richard J enrette's Adventures in Historic Preservation (2000) 
edited by IT. G. Jones 

No. 32. Sketches in North Carolina USA 1872 to 1878 (2001) 
try Mortimer O. Heath; edited by H. G. Jones 

No. 13. Roots and Branches (2001) 
by Wilma Dykeman 


Form No. A-368, Rev. 8/95